


Better left unsaid

by brimfulofasher



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Post-Break Up, duty's a right bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brimfulofasher/pseuds/brimfulofasher
Summary: They won the battle, saved the world. But not everything escapes unscathed.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Better left unsaid

As coronations went, he assumes it’s gone as well as it could; he is in fact king and no-one has taken him aside yet to point out it was an elaborate joke and actually, the throne belongs to a Mabari. He’s sure some of the old guard would approve of that, even. For a moment, he turns to an unseen companion to repeat the thought aloud but there’s no one there and yet again he can’t quite shake the feeling of being adrift in a sea of people. That when people look at him now, they don’t see him but a name he never felt belonged to him in the first place. His father’s shadow is not a place he wishes to linger in, however, and he has the hope that he’ll step out of it soon enough.  
  
Across the hall, a raucous peal of laughter draws his attention to a small crowd gathered around one figure and his stomach lurches a little on recognising her. Charming them with the kind of ease he’s yet to find in himself, Yana is leading the conversation as animatedly as ever. He tries and fails to ignore the ache in his chest, wondering why she’s hidden herself away until now. She turns at one of her fellows’ urging, catching him staring and politely excuses herself before making her way towards him. He supposes it’s useless to pretend to be nonchalant by this point so he simply straightens his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He can handle this. He’s helped bring down an Archdemon and its’ armies, he can surely handle seeing her again. Although if another old god felt like crashing through the ceiling right about now, he wouldn’t complain.  
  
Yana is equally as intimidating, resplendent in deep red velvet that sweeps the floor and her hair elaborately braided away from her bare shoulders, gold earrings glittering in the candlelight. She bows solemnly in greeting and he hates it. She is the last person who ever need show him this kind of deference. Or perhaps it’s defiance, mocking him? He doesn’t think her that cruel, however hurt she might be.  
  
“Your majesty.” She says quietly as she straightens up. He can’t find the words, guilt closing up his throat. He wishes so badly he could take back what he said, that he will always love her, that he misses her-  
  
“I…It’s good to see you.” He finally manages to blurt out, breathlessly. She regards him with an arched brow, sipping at the wine in her hand and he shrinks at that, admonished by one look alone.  
  
“You say that as though you’re surprised I’m even here.”  
  
He shifts awkwardly where he stands. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t come. But I’m glad you did."  
  
Yana shrugs.  
  
"Wouldn’t do well for publicity if the Hero of Ferelden didn’t bother showing up for the coronation after all this effort to get you here.” She glances around, brow furrowed as she finds what she was looking for. "Though I’m sure some would rather I kept away.“  
  
He follows her gaze- Arl Eamon is watching them closely, with an expression he can’t quite place. She sighs, shaking her head as she turns back to him.  
  
"I wanted to make sure you were alright.” She says, face softening. “This can’t be easy for you.”  
  
At that, he feels a little of the tension held in his shoulders slip away. That she doesn’t hate him outright, some semblance of their care for each other still remaining.  
  
“Oh, well, you know how it is. Going from a traitor on the run to _king_ in the space of a few weeks is a matter of course for most people, isn’t it?”  
  
She snorts into her cup, shaking her head at him despairingly. He manages a lop-sided grin, absently rubbing the nape of his neck. Looking around the hall, the revellers seem occupied enough that they wouldn’t notice him going missing for a moment and so he takes a chance.  
  
“Would you…want to take a walk with me? Suddenly feels awfully stuffy in here.”  
  
She hesitates, slowly lowering the goblet.  
  
“Please?” He murmurs, eyes imploring as he reaches out to touch her free hand, fingers gently closed around her wrist. There’s a moment where he thinks she’s about to pull back but instead she sets down her cup on a nearby table and gestures for him to lead the way.  
  
He still doesn’t know the palace that well and it’s difficult to ignore the pointed looks and whispers of his courtiers and well-wishers as they pass, but everything is so stifling right now and he just wants to breathe for a moment. They keep going until the din of the crowd is far behind them, eventually finding themselves in a quiet courtyard. The walls are fixed with scaffolding, some of the rubble yet to be cleared away but it’s peaceful enough. He leads them to a stone bench out in the middle of an unkempt lawn and offers her a seat first. She stretches her legs out in front of her, straightening her back as though uncomfortable.  
  
“I’d gotten used to not being cinched into dresses and wearing delicate shoes,” She explains, examining some hidden flaw in her dress. “Surprised how little I miss it.”  
  
She looks up at him with a sad smile. “Don’t tell Leliana I said that. She went to great pains to find me these things.”  
  
Pulling up her skirts, she tries leaning over to unlace the ribbons at her ankles but to no avail. Unthinking, he kneels in front of her and starts to untie them for her, only realising what he’s doing when his fingers brush against the skin of her calf and makes her shiver a little. He stops, glancing up at her, worried he’s overstepped his bounds but she inclines her head for him to carry on. So he does, hearing her sigh as they’re loosened and he can’t help but let his hands linger, gently massaging the marks left behind. Taking his seat beside her again, he leans forward on his knees, smiling to himself as she roughly kicks off the slippers and runs her bare feet through the dew-damp grass to soothe them. It almost feels normal, like it used to be in camp after a hard march through the back end of Ferelden.  
  
“So, how are you really doing?”  
  
He chews his lip, hesitant.  
  
“Honestly? I…I don’t know, this is the last place I expected to end up. But I have to at least try and make a go of things. I want to make it right, for everyone.”  
  
He’s surprised to feel her hand close around his, squeezing firm.  
  
“You will.”  
  
He doesn’t look up, but turns his hand over and threads their fingers together. There’s a long pause and he hears her take a deep breath before she next speaks.  
  
“Alistair, I-” She starts but he quickly shakes his head.  
  
“Don’t. You don’t need to say anything.”  
  
She shuffles closer to him, body achingly warm against the chill of an autumn night. He wonders how she isn’t freezing with so much skin out on show but he finds that thought flying out of his mind when her other hand moves to tilt his chin up and turn his face towards hers. His breath comes a little short as she leans in; it’s been weeks since she kissed him last and the need to feel her mouth on his is almost too much. Slow, deepening just a little when he cradles her head with a hand and draws her nearer. He sighs shakily as they part, keeping their foreheads pressed together.  
  
“For what it’s worth, I am so sorry-”  
  
She hushes him, stroking his cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Not now.”  
  
“But I-”  
  
“I know,” She whispers, sniffling softly and he feels a tear against his cheek. He’s not sure if it’s hers or his. “I know.”  
  
He turns to pull her into his arms, fingers clenched at the small of her back. Maybe if he never lets go, she can’t leave. It’s selfish, only prolonging the inevitable but he can’t help it. She’s come back to him if only for a little while and he doesn’t want this to end. He never did. Reluctantly he lets her out of his arms, laughing weakly while she dries his face with her sleeve.  
  
“Not a good look for a king, is it?” He hiccups.  
  
“Blame it on the wine.” She says, leaning into his hand when he wipes her tears away in kind. He laughs again, a little more genuine this time. But his expression falters after a moment and he bows his head, taking both her hands in his to kiss her knuckles before pressing them to his brow. Faintly, music can be heard coming from the hall. Yana gently nudges his cheek with a finger and pulls away to stand up, a hand outstretched.  
  
“You did promise me a dance, once.”  
  
“I think I was supposed to be the one in a pretty dress, though.” He says with a small smile, taking her hand and letting himself be led into the middle of the lawn.  
  
“You can make it up to me one day.” She replies, stretching up to kiss his cheek before guiding his hands into hold.  
  
It’s a half-hearted attempt at any recognisable court dance, their steps bringing them closer until they simply sway together in slow circles with their arms around each other. The music eventually fades away but they stand on the spot, neither wishing to part. He leans down, pressing his forehead to hers again and at first, the kiss she offers in reply is almost chaste. But then her hands slide from his shoulders and cradle his face to draw him in deeper. It’s hot and raw and he loses himself in it, in her arms. They break apart after a moment, breathing heavy and making mist in the cold.  
  
“We should go back.” She says quietly, avoiding his eyes.  
  
“Should we?” He murmurs, keeping his arms held around her waist. Dark eyes meet his, shining in the dim light and it pains him to see her look so sad. Gently, she pushes his hands away and nods.  
  
“I can’t keep you,” She gives a shaky sigh, hugging herself. “Better we remember this night as it is.”  
  
He’s not sure if he wants to remember a night where she’s so determined to walk away, but he can’t blame her. She draws him out of his thoughts with a hand laid on his cheek again.  
  
“Just know,” She begins, voice wavering. “That no matter what happens next, I am so proud of you, Alistair.”  
  
He nods, head bowed, lips pulled thin and trembling with the effort to hold himself together. The hand on his cheek slips away and when he looks up, she’s gone. Turning around, he just catches sight of the door closing behind her and he staggers back over to the bench, curled in on himself with his hair balled up in his fists while he lets himself cry out in the dark.  
  
He hears the door open again after a while and the brief hope that she’s come back, changed her mind, turns to lead in his belly when he looks up only to see it’s his manservant, Henri.  
  
“Ah, here you are,” The other man says with a relieved sigh. “The Arl of Redcliffe was about to send out a search party for you, your majesty, but I thought better of it-”  
  
He stops when he reaches him, frowning at the dishevelled state of his king, red eyed and face puffy.  
  
“Are you alright?” Henri asks quietly.   
  
Alistair shakes his head, turning away and staring at the ground. His eye catches a flash of red in the grass; Yana’s slippers are still there and he reaches down to pick them up, idly tracing the pattern embroidered on the toes. Roses.  
  
She always was sentimental.  
  
He starts a little when Henri sits beside him, fixing him with a worried look when he finally lifts his head.  
  
“They’re rather fetching, but I daresay they’re not quite your size…”  
  
Alistair smiles weakly, roughly wiping his face with the back of his hand. Henri still watches him, concerned.  
  
“I saw Lady Surana come from here earlier, so I assumed…?”  
  
“You know what they say about assuming, Henri,” Alistair replies thickly, swallowing hard. He sniffs, nodding. “But you’re right. She was here.”  
  
Henri lets out a short breath, drumming his hands awkwardly on his knees. If nothing else, Alistair is grateful for his discretion and tendency not to pry.   
  
“Do you want me to leave you a moment? I could have them taken back to her…”  
  
Alistair nods faintly, the ribbons curled around his fingers. “Perhaps that would be best. Wouldn’t want her to get told off by an irate bard for leaving them behind in the damp.”  
  
He ignores the confused look Henri gives him and hands them over to him, drawing his hands down his face with a tired groan before getting to his feet. Henri follows suit, tucking the shoes under his arm and setting a hand gently on his shoulder.  
  
“Come on,” Alistair says with a resolute nod, straightening his doublet. “No good hiding away from my own party, is it?”


End file.
